


Orchis

by blushingliars



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Belly Kink, Body Horror, Gen, Hostage Situations, Mpreg, Pain, just plain weird
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-12-11
Updated: 2014-12-11
Packaged: 2018-03-01 02:24:35
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,561
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2756096
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/blushingliars/pseuds/blushingliars
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Dean's found himself in some tight situations before, but this one is stranger than strange, and he may not be able to get himself out of it, in one piece. (Inspired by the myth of Orchis.)</p>
            </blockquote>





	Orchis

**Author's Note:**

  * For [nwspaprtaxis](https://archiveofourown.org/users/nwspaprtaxis/gifts).



The dark draws back slowly, achingly, and a warm glow of lamplight breaches Dean's sleep. He has the mother of all hangovers, still, after _days_ , but he's almost used to it by now. He'd have been surprised if he'd awoken clear-headed, to be honest. Night after day after night of grogginess and exhaustion, he simply gives into it. She keeps pumping him full of high-octane overly-sweet wine. There is a name for the stuff but Dean can't pluck the word from his brain.

The room is the same as always, plaster walls with cracked faded murals that look like something from a cobwebby history book, something Sam might've creamed over. Dimly lit, overly warm.

Dean peels back the covers of his corner cot and grunts as he drags himself upright. The bulge in his gut is still there, still pressing taut against his skin and shoving outwards. This, too, is disconcertingly familiar. He lifts up his sweat-stained t-shirt and rolls a palm over his middle. It flutters, or rather whatever is living beneath his skin does. Feels like millions of tiny wings or lips or something fluttery and nervous filling his abdomen. He swallows back terror, because it does him no good. Seems to agitate the things inside, in fact, feeding off his fear. He won't give them that luxury.

_Stay cool, Winchester. Stay fucking cool._ Sam has to be looking for him; they'd long since learned that letting things ride, letting things go unaddressed, is a losing proposition. Sam will be here. He will.

Dean takes a breath and slides the shirt back over his paunch. The door rattles, and he would've startled if his head weren't full of sludge.

She has taken everything out of the room that he could throw at her, attack her with. A heavy bedside table and the lantern hooked from the ceiling is all that remains. He's tried to get free, God he's tried, but she is unnaturally strong and he is...not. Clearly, she is not human. He fixes a baleful glower at the door; it's the least he can do.

She always enters smiling and wild-eyed, no matter how much he glares. Her expression glitters like a rabid cat. She wears some sort of tunic or gown this time, having changed out of old leather armor that Dean thought looked like Xena Warrior Princess or some such shit. Again, she’s carrying a tall clay pitcher full of the honeyed wine. Dean's stomach churns but it isn't nausea, it's hunger. He's been absurdly hungry these past few...days? Who knows. He's lost all track of time; he can only base its passage through sleep cycles and her visits because there's no windows and she has taken his watch.

"F-fancy meeting you...here..." he slurs. The things in his belly churl, and alarm cuts a crack through the haze.

She rattles off words in a language he doesn't understand. Sam would, though. Of course he would.

Dean has gotten no indication she understands English, so he placates himself by calling her a string of insulting, sexist epithets. Because he can, and it makes him feel that much better.

She gets his tone of voice, though, and shoves the pitcher into his chest, just above the swell of his middle. She grins so wide he thinks her face might cleave in half.

When he doesn't comply straight away, she knocks the rim of the pitcher against his mouth, so hard it splits his lip against his teeth and Dean tastes blood. It makes no sense, but his appetite amps up at the smell of the blood and wine. None of this makes a fucking bit of sense. He finds himself parting his lips and she pours the sickly sweet stuff in. He swallows hard and fast, but it still leaks from the sides of his mouth and down his neck, a cool sticky stream.

He keeps choking and swallowing, and she giggles. It's a brittle, mad sound that makes him drink faster, just so he can get this over with and she'll leave again. His stomach fills and shoves into the parasites, beginning to ache against those fluttering things. But he keeps drinking and she keeps cackling until the container is empty and his stomach is tightly bloated and cramping and shoving out the bottom of his shirt. He's long since given up his jeans, the pinch too painful. He gasps as he forces the last of the wine down his throat, swallowing against the urge to vomit. He doesn't want to know what she'll do if he can't keep the wine down. It can't be good.

He has to buy himself as much time as possible, because Sam is coming.

With a desperate exhale, he thuds back against the wall behind his bed, so winded and swollen he can barely breathe. The wine hits him like a snow storm, a blanket of smothering fuzz that makes the room spin and his stomach spasm as it struggles to accept the pressure of the liquid from one side and the creatures from the other. His skin is stretched and waxy, at once bulging outwards to an absurd degree and churling with the tiniest shivery movements. He watches it through heavy-lidded eyes, aghast. 

And fuck, she doesn't leave, as he'd hoped. Dean is never that lucky. Staring at his middle with thinly-veiled glee, she drops to her knees on the edge of the bed and slaps her palms to his massive stomach, hoists the bulk in her hands. The shove sends a shudder of ache through his abdomen, and the things-inside practically boil with excitement. He can sense it, their frantic joy, but he sure as hell doesn't share it.

He tries to back away, but he's sandwiched between her and the wall, and the sheer weight of his middle practically keeps him pinned in place. She whispers something he can't discern, but the things-inside do. They suddenly still, as if listening. Just a bit of his stomach's ache settles, but he watches her warily. This is new.

Her fingertips flutter over the top of his distended gut and she murmurs again, her lips almost brushing the mound. She might even be trembling, he can't be sure. The world is a blur.

He begins to feel a tingle, the static buzz of magic. This, he knows; he's activated enough sigils to recognize the electricity of the arcane. The tingle shudders across the expanse of his torso. Sinking in. Building. It amplifies until he can feel nothing else but that sensation, not her hands, not the over-full pressure in his stomach. He's almost lost in it, his vision narrowing into mere spots of dim light.

Then, it explodes. Not literally—or at least he hopes the fuck not—but it washes over him in a massive body-wide pulse, some bizarre systemic orgasm. And the things-inside wake up and agitate and holy shit, they multiply. He forces his eyes open and watches his stomach expand larger yet, can almost hear the skin stretch and groan. Or maybe that’s him groaning, as the searing pain threatens to tear him apart. 

The parasites roil against each other, magically reproducing, and she is laughing again. Dean hears groaning and laughing and a high-pitched hum in his ears that sounds like the scream of steam, releasing. But it's them, he knows it. They are screaming to be released. They are packed inside his abdomen, furious and _done._

Tears stream hot down his cheeks as he squirms for comfort, but there is none to be had. Every movement sets them off. He spreads his thighs to make room for the horrific pregnancy, but it just keeps getting bigger, the skin thinner until he can almost see _color_ shifting beneath. Purples and dark pinks and acid greens, like living bruises.

They shove against his lungs, and breathing is almost impossible now. He hasn't even the sentience to be alarmed when she pulls a knife from the folds of her gown. 

_Go ahead. Do it. Oh, God, please do it. Kill me. Make this stop make it stop make it stop—_

The thin, acutely sharp blade slices his fragile skin like paper. His stomach splits, a gash from which a flood of... _orchids_ spews out? All those fluttering, feathery feelings were petals. Living, animated, monstrous flora that escapes into the room to the giddy cries of his captor. 

She claps and watches with white-rimmed eyes as her spawn batters off the ceiling and walls, tangles in her hair, everywhere. They practically blot out the lantern's light, and the fragrance of vanilla and spice and green fills the air. Dean's sense of relief is so overwhelming, he can't even care that he's weeping in pain and seeping blood, hot and soupy, from the wound into the cot. He's just barely cognizant of a cooling breeze across his emptied abdomen, the dizzy spin of blood loss.

And then, there is a dull thud, more warm blood. The orchid vermin squeal, and her head—eyes still wide and almost thrilled—lands on the mattress beside him. Unattached from her neck.

Dean drags his fading gaze from her head to the man standing in front of him. Disheveled hair, plaid, heavy panicked breaths. A machete glimmering in one hand, between the Technicolor flock of air-born orchids.

Dean's eyes slide shut.

**Author's Note:**

> I didn't realize how similar to 'Babe in the Woods' this was until, like, NOW. Sorry! At any rate, it's just a little fic for nwspaprtaxis, who'd been having a tough time at school lately. I churned it out in an afternoon, quick and dirty. Concrit welcomed! And feel free to leave prompts. :D


End file.
